China Mieville - The Scar

Bellis discovered, with unfolding interest, that she was not quite convinced by him. She did not believe his insinuations. She could not tell whether he believed them himself, but she knew, suddenly, that she did not.

She found that calming. She sat still, after he was gone, with her hands folded, her pale face immobile and lapped by the wind.

They came and told her that her language skills were requested, that she was to travel on a scientific expedition.

On the Grand Easterly , in one of the low clusters of rooms a scant story or two above the deck, Bellis looked out over the surrounding ships of Garwater and at the Grand Easterly ’s bowsprit above them. The ship’s funnels were clean; its masts jutted two, three hundred feet into the sky, as bare as dead trees, their shafts embedded below in striae of dining rooms and mezzanines.

Stretched out across the deck, like a broken fossil, were laid the innards of a huge airship. Curves of metal like barrel straps or ribs; propellers and their engines; massive detumescent gasbags. They stretched for hundreds of feet along the side of the Grand Easterly , skirting the bases of the masts. Gangs of engineers riveted them in place, constructing the enormous thing in segments. The noises and the glow from hot metal reached Bellis through the windows.

The Lovers arrived, and the briefing sessions began.

At night Bellis found herself affected by insomnia. She stopped trying to sleep and tentatively began to write her letter again.

She felt as if everything was occurring at one remove from her. Each day she was escorted to the Grand Easterly . Perhaps thirty-five men and women gathered daily in that room. They were of various races. Some were Remade. One or two, Bellis was sure, came from the Terpsichoria . She recognized Shekel’s companion Tanner Sack, and saw that he recognized her.

Quite suddenly it had become hot. The city had passed, at its groaning rate, into a new stretch of the world’s sea. The air was dry, and it was as warm every day as the rarest moment of a New Crobuzon summer. Bellis did not relish it. She would stare into a new, hard sky and feel herself waning in its influence. She sweated, and smoked less, and wore thinner clothes.

People walked stripped to the waist, and the sky was full of arcing summer birds. The water around the city was clear, and big schools of colorful fish were close to the surface. The byways of Garwater began to smell.

The briefings were given by Hedrigall and others like him-press-ganged cactacae, once pirate-traders from Dreer Samher. Hedrigall was a brilliant orator, his fabler training making his descriptions and explanations sound like wildly exciting stories. It was a dangerous trait.

He told Bellis and her new companions about the island of the anophelii. And, hearing the stories, Bellis began to wonder if she had taken on a task she could not complete.

Tintinnabulum came sometimes to the meetings. Always one or both of the Lovers was present. And sometimes, to Bellis’ unease, Uther Doul lounged beside the gathering, leaning against a wall, his hand to his sword.

She could not stop watching him.

Outside, the aerostat took shape like some enormous vague-edged whale. Bellis saw ladders being laid internally. Flimsy-seeming cabins were constructed. Tar- and sap-coated leather was hauled into position.

It had been a mass of parts, and then a cut-up body, and then a work in progress, and now it was becoming a vast airship. It lolled on the deck. It was like some insect just emerged from chrysalis: still too weak to fly, but now clearly become what it would be.

Bellis sat alone in her bed, in the hot nights, sweating and smoking, terribly afraid of what she had to do but almost trembling with excitement. She would rise, sometimes, and walk, just to hear her feet slapping on the metal floor, relishing the fact that she was the only thing in her room making a sound.

Short, uncomfortably hot days and interminable sweaty nights. Daylight lasted longer as the weeks progressed, but still early every evening the light had gone and the stretched-out, sticky summer night drained the city of strength.

There were half-hearted fights at the junctions of ridings. Bravos from Garwater out drinking might end up in the same bar as a group of Dry Fallers. At first there would be nothing but a few surly murmurs: the Garwater lads might mutter about leech lovers or daemon’s bum-boys. The Dry Fall mob would make a loud joke or two about perverts at the helm, and laugh too much at bad puns about cutting.

A few drinks or sniffs or puffs later and the punches would be thrown, but somehow the antagonists’ energies rarely seemed entirely in the fray. They did what they expected of themselves-little more than that.

By midnight the streets were clearing out, and by two or three they were mostly empty.

The drone from the surrounding ships never dimmed. There were factories and workshops in various industrial districts, perched stinking and smoke-bawling on the arse-ends of old ships, which did not stop. The nightwatch moved through the city’s shadows, each riding’s in its own colors.

Armada was not like New Crobuzon. Here there was not a whole alternative economy of rubbish and squalor and survival: the basements of empty buildings did not harbor a mass of beggars and homeless. There were no dumps to plunder: the city’s rubbish was stripped of everything that could be reused, and the remainder was jettisoned into the sea with the city’s corpses, spoor dissolving as it sank.

There were slums draped across the sloops and frigates, found housing moldering in the brine air and heat, sweating matter onto their inhabitants. The cactacae laborers of Jhour stood, sleeping, tight-packed in cheap flophouses. But the New Crobuzon pressganged could see the difference. Poverty here was less likely to kill. Fights were more likely to be fueled by booze than desperation. A roof was likely to be found, even if it drizzled plaster. There were no vagrants huddled in angles of architecture to watch late-night walkers.

So in the dead hours, as a man made his way toward the Grand Easterly , he was unseen.

He walked without hurry along Garwater’s less salubrious byways. Needle Street and Blodmead Street and the Wattlandaub Maze on the Surge Instigant ; the Cable’s Weft , a barquentine decaying into fungus-mottled camouflage; and on to the submersible Plengant . He picked his way past the trapdoors cut into its top, stayed in shadow close to the blistering periscope tower.

Behind him, its tower unlit among the spires and masts, he could see the derrick of the Sorghum .

The flat flank of the Grand Easterly swept up beside the Plengant like the side of a canyon. From deep within it, behind its metal skin, there were the vibrations of unceasing industry. There were trees on the surface of the submersible, gripping the iron with roots like knotted toes. The man walked in their shadow and heard the quick skin-sounds of bats above him.

There were thirty or forty feet of sea between the submarine and the cliff face of the steamship. The man saw the lights and shadows of late-night dirigibles in the sky, weak shifting rays spilling over the Grand Easterly ’s guardrail from the torches of the yeomanry patrolling the deck.

Opposite him was the enormous sweeping curve of the Grand Easterly ’s starboard sponson, the cover to the paddlewheel. From the bottom of its bell-shaped covering, the slats of a great wheel within emerged like ankles from a skirt.

The man emerged from the shade of the sickly trees. He removed his shoes, tying them to his belt. When no one came, and there were no sounds, he walked to the curving edge of the Plengant and slid suddenly into the cool water, with only a faint sound. It was only a short swim to the flank of the Grand Easterly , and into the shadows below the sponson.